


A Hero's Lament

by jewboykahl



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, One Shot, Sad and Happy, Sad boi hours, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewboykahl/pseuds/jewboykahl
Summary: After years of carefully hiding his habits, Stan discovers Kenny's been self-harming. Unsure of how to help, he calls upon his an old, heroic friend to let Kenny know he is not alone.
Relationships: Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	A Hero's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> yo just in case you ignored the tags, here's a big fat trigger warning that this story is entirely about self-harm and overcoming it and does reference actual cutting, razors, blood, etc. this could be very triggering so pls do not read if those topics are triggering for you, thank you <333

Kenny winces as soap seeps into the deep, fresh cuts on his thigh. He purses his lips together and exhales deeply through his nose. The sharp sting against his skin provides him with a sickeningly soothing sensation. It is an addictive, high-like feeling; it takes him away from the constant headache he endures.

He always feels guilty for slicing his skin in the solitude of his shower, but he has his habit under control. He leaves it for the days that he needs the numb inside of him to leave most. The dull ache of incessant self-loathing is best quenches by the harsh pain digging into his flesh.

He lingers under the cold water, allowing it to drench his face and trickle slowly against his sensitive skin. The familiar combination of relief and regret washes over him as he raises his hands and rakes his hands through his thick, blond hair. A knock on the door obliterates his concentration. His breath hitches.

“Kenny? It’s me, are you almost done? The guys are waiting at the court for us.” His best friend’s voice sounds from the other side of the door.

“Hey—yeah, I—“ Kenny clears his throat, cursing the embarrassment his frightened, high-pitched tone brings him, “I’m just—I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Okay,” a muffled reply sounds, and Kenny lets out a sigh of relief.

He leans down and twists his knobs, shutting off the water. Squeezing the excess water from his hair with one hand, he slides the shower curtain aside. He takes a step over the side of the tub where he left his razor blade, a small pool of blood laying beneath the metallic object.

He grabs a moist towel from the hook beside the shower and wraps himself in it. He’s panicking now, very away of the remaining drops of blood oozing from his new cuts. He decides to sacrifice the towel and dab his skin dry, coloring the material deep scarlet.

Kenny fumbles with the broken door of the vanity cabinet in search of bandaging. For the sake of time, he settles on the tan Ace wrap and spins it around his upper thigh. When he fastens the bandages together, he notices his hands are shaking like mad. He tries to let himself breath and calm down, but it is difficult when he knows Stan is waiting for him. He wants to think he took too long in the shower before his friend group had planned on getting together for a basketball game… truthfully, he just forgot. He’s grateful for Stan’s habit of coming over to collect him before they hung out.

It is difficult to pull on his black sweatpants without unravelling the bandage but after he managed to do so, he slung a hoodie over his torso. A quick look in the mirror makes him hate himself even more—especially when considering the dark circles beneath his brown eyes and the way his lip quivers. He sucks it between his teeth and shakes his head, unprepared to face Stan in his heightened emotional state, but seeing no other option. He scoops the blood splattered towel up from the floor to eliminate the evidence and treks out of the bathroom. On entering his bedroom down the hall, he finds his friend standing in the center on his cell phone. When their eyes meet, Kenny’s heart flutters.

Another reason for his unceasing numbness is the long-term unrequited love he felt for Stan Marsh. He wasn’t positive when his crush developed, but he was positive it was sometime after the pair began having reoccurring movie nights that were just the two of them. A bond had developed, and romantic feelings budded within Kenny, rendering him a complete mess on the inside whenever Stan peers his way, flashes him a smile, or (God fucking forbid) he touches him in any way. It’s pretty pathetic, but he can’t help himself—Stan is amazing, and he knows him very intimately and deeply admires him and is _so_ attracted to him.

Especially now, as he stands in the middle of Kenny’s messy, unimpressive bedroom, clad in a thick, black hoodie, athletic shorts, and his favorite Nike, high top shoes. It’s one of those rare instances in which Stan’s messy black hair was not hidden beneath a thick, winter beanie. Given that the summer-like temperatures linger for the beginning of the school year and the weather outside isn’t completely unbearably freezing, there was an increase in times like these—though Stan hates his hair and generally likes to keep it covered.

“Hey,” the dark-haired boy greets with a brief glance and warm smile before returning to whatever preoccupied him on his cellphone.

Kenny smiles widely to himself and slumps past Stan to the single twin mattress in the corner of his room. “Greetings. Are you ready to break up some fights today?”

Stan snorts as Kenny takes a seat at the foot of his bed and slips on his worn-out Converse. “Hopefully Craig and those guys being there will somewhat defuse the tension. If Cartman start going after Token or Clyde, though, it’s gonna be a full-fledged _kerfuffle_.” Kenny chuckles as he laces up his shoes, and Stan continues, “I’m gonna to bathroom real quick.”

Kenny nods and finishes up his other shoe. Pushing himself upright, he flinches at the stinging sensation he earns from stretching out his limbs. He traces over to his old, wooden dresser and pulls the top drawer ajar, pushing passed a few stolen _Playboys_ for a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol he stole from the drug store. He plops two of the white pills into his mouth and swallows dry. He shuts the medicine back up into his dresser just in time for Stan to reenter his bedroom. The grin he initially grants his friend faulters when he witnesses Stan’s features contorted in deep concern. His complexion is ghost white as his mouth falls open to say something.

“What’s the matter, dude?” Kenny wonders, taking steps toward him.

Stan sputters for a moment, his pretty blue eyes appearing cloudy. “I—Kenny… are you… are you cutting yourself?”

Everything within him comes to a screeching halt; his heart stops beating, his body goes rigid, and his brain ceases to produce thoughts and words. He stands completely still before the taller boy, unable to confirm or deny the allegation. His silence confirms what Stan must already know somehow—but how?”

As is he read his mind, Stan says, “There’s a razor on the tub… it’s bloody,”

“Fuck,” Kenny curses, lets out a long sigh. He breaks the eye contact with Stan, which is now entirely too much pressure. Though he’s clearly been found out, he remains unable to conduct a meaningful response. He backsteps deeper into his room.

“What’s going on, Ken?” the softest version of Stan’s voice he has ever heard asks after a moment of silence. Kenny flicks his watery stare up to see that Stan is stepping in his direction. He heartrate quickens. Stan pleads gingerly, “You know you can tell me anything.”

The blond releases a shaky breath and fixes his gaze away again. He cannot decide whether or not it is helpful or overwhelming to scrutinize the distress written into Stan’s features; while it shows he’s truly cared for, it’s difficult to accept that he’s caused Stan any kind of pain.

Before he can think of any words, tears seem to answer Stan’s question instead. He cups his hands over his freckled face wets. The cries swiftly escalate to silent sobs wracking his body when Stan draws him in for a warm, comforting hug. He presses his face to the base of Stan’s neck and squeezes his eyes shut, attempting to force the tears back into his body.

Kenny thinks it’s been a good five years since he’s cried.

“It’s okay, Ken… I’m here for you.” Stan whispers against the shell of his ear, causing him to shudder and brings on the urge for him to cry even harder. The aroused sensation that moves through his body in a cruel wave reminds him how badly he would like to draw back and crash his lips against the other boy’s. Knowing he can’t only adds to the emotional anguish welling within him.

“I’m sorry you had to see that…” Kenny finally manages after what must have been ten minutes of allowing himself to be held tightly against Stan’s warmth. At one point he though he must have dozed off even. It was the most comfortable and safe he had felt in actual ages.

Stan shakes his head and takes the opportunity to gently withdraw from the hug. He finds Kenny’s stare as a hand cups the back of the smaller boy’s blond head, fingers imbedding in his moist curls. Kenny feels like he’s floating. Stan replies, “Dude, don’t apologize. I’m sure the memories of finding me black-out drunk at my dad’s farm at the age of eleven aren’t done traumatizing you.”

Kenny lets out a nervous, breathy laugh, though nothing about the situation is truly funny. He cannot think of anything else to do—it’s either apologize again, laugh, or be silent. His nose is snotty, and a headache pounds his skull from crying. He is soothed by Stan softly tracing his fingers through his ringlets.

“Do you wanna get some pizza?” Utterly bemused by the offer, Kenny lifts an eyebrow. Stan’s expression has not shifted and remains completely serious. He wets his lips and offers an explanation, “I know what it’s like for people to find out you’re hurting yourself. I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted to feel normal.”

Kenny’s heart throbs. He lets himself sniffle and slowly bobs his head. “I sure as shit don’t feel normal.”

Stan cracks a smile. “Trust me, Ken, you are. Let’s go get pizza, okay? If you want we can talk about it, and if you don’t, we won’t.”

“What about the guys? Basketball?”

“Fuck those guys,” Stan scoffs, withdraws from Kenny’s presence. The blond feels immensely disappointed with the lose of contact, but the gleam in Stan’s eyes makes up for it when he says, “Come on, just you and me. I’ll buy.”

Kenny chuckles, “That’s good, ‘cause I don’t have money.”

Stan drapes an arm around Kenny’s shoulders as they exit his home and head downtown for pizza. There they split a cheese pizza and a Coke and manage to fall into a normal conversation about the new show they are watching together, _Barry_. They get into a brief argument about whether or not Bill Hader is attractive (Kenny wins, refusing to back down from the position that he absolutely _is_ ), complain about school for a bit, and eventually come back around to the topic of Kenny intentionally harming himself. After the pressure of being found out has lifted from his shoulders, he feels much more comfortable informing Stan that it began with him punching himself whenever he felt overwhelmed or frustrated or _numb_. He explains to Stan that there’s a constant numbness inside of him. Something’s missing—something about his body is not right, and something about his home life has caused some deep psychological trauma. Once he had already beat his thighs purple and doing so further was unbearable pain that did not satisfy his craving for pain. This is when he had begun to cut himself—starting with his left bicep. Though it was harder to clean up, it was a more satisfying habit. Stan tears up during the confession but assures Kenny he too possesses the _numb_ feeling.

Never in Kenny’s life has anyone checked in on him. Asked him to express himself emotionally. Not a single person knew anything that went on inside his head—but now that Stan _does_ , and Stan _cares_ , and Stan did not leave him when he found out how _fucked up_ Kenny is, he thinks he finally knows what the _numb_ is— _loneliness_. Because for the first time the numb begins to dissipate.

While Stan is most likely incapable of banishing the numb completely, Kenny still feels that it has faded even in the dark of his room in the middle of the night, when the numb is usually the worst. That night Kenny hugs a pillow and replays the events of the day, joy and contentment swelling within him for the first time in a long time.

_

Terror invades Kenny’s chest when a rustling sound emits from his closet. Considering the gapping hole in his closet that leads to the outside world, it is not an unheard-of occurrence for a living creature to wander into the McCormick household. This is how Kenny first became acquainted with his pseudo-pet Mr. Possy. Despite this, it remains quite unsettling.

Kenny stands pushes himself from his mattress and scurries across his room to light switch. The sound rustling grows louder, and the illumination of the space allows Kenny to watch as a human head peeks through the trash-bag barrier he has fastened over the hole. His eyes go wide, “Stan?!”

“Fuck, dude,” his friend groans as he heaves himself into Kenny’s bedroom. He remains crotched in the closet for a moment, breathing heavy as he peers up at Kenny, “this was a lot easier six years ago.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Kenny laughs, gesturing to his right, “you know I got a one-story window. And a front door.”

Stan shakes his head and rises to his feet. It is then that Kenny can see that Stan is clad in a plain white t-shirt, blue jeans, and a toolbelt strapped around his waist. A _T_ is written on Stan’s chest with what appears to be blue sharpie. “I’m not Stan, by the way,” he states, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a pair of yellow-tinted safety goggles. He puts them on and places his hands on his hips—a hero stance. “It is I—Toolshed! Here to protect Kenny.”

Kenny cannot help sniggers that leave him. “Dude—for real, what the fuck are you doing?”

The darkhaired boy smirks, containing his own amusement at the ridiculous gesture. He announces in a faux-authoritarian tone. “I heard that Kenny McCormick, who is a good friend of the mighty Mysterion, is in grave danger and must be protected and kept company."

When Kenny understands what Stan is playing at, his stomach drops. He wets his lips, “Stan, you know how much your costume turns me on, but this really isn’t necessary. I’m fine.”

“ _Toolshed_ is glad to hear this, civilian,” Stan emphasizes, keeping up the charade as he begins wandering closer to where Kenny stands in the center of his bedroom. “I am here to not only keep you safe from harm, but to _drill_ into your head how amazing you are.”

The blond’s throat tightens. He allows a smirk to curve his lips, “Yeah?”

“Let me _hammer_ down some facts on you,” Stan continues, the crinkle of his eyebrows showing that he is unsure of the success of the second tool-related metaphor. Kenny laughs softly and stands still as Stan approaches him. A glove-clad hand becomes available of Kenny to take.

He accepts Stan’s outstretched hand and quips, “Usually I make a guy take me to dinner before he _hammers_ me, but I guess I’ll make an exception for ya.”

“Toolshed thanks you,” the costumed boy returns, clearing his throat to stop himself from cackling along with Kenny. “I spoke with one of your friends, Stan Marsh, and that guy seems to have a lot of really nice things to say about you. He’s kind of an idiot, but he makes some really good points.”

Kenny lifts an eyebrow, the feeling of weightlessness returning when he meets Stan’s ocean stare. “What did that idiot say about me?”

Stan’s thick eyebrows narrow at the comment for a second before returning to character. He explains his meaning as he holds both of Kenny’s hands in his like delicate birds. “He says that you’re the funniest and coolest person he knows, and he’s both terrified and amazed by your wisdom of how the world works,”

Heart beginning to swell with the compliments being sent his way, he hums, in acknowledgement, “I was the one who taught him what _deepthroat_ means.”

Stan nods and grins while he continues, “Stan also said that you’re his favorite person to hang out with and whenever you can’t he’s super disappointed.”

Suddenly the mood shifts when a serious expression crosses Stan’s face. He runs his gloved thumb over Kenny knuckles, making him wish his skin were bare. “You’re so, crazy nice and smart and talented and just… fucking perfect. You’re seriously perfect, Kenny, like,” In true Stan fashion, his words fail him. Even Toolshed falters now and again. “Sometimes I wish I was more like you or I was you, because you’re just amazing and you’re really fucking cute, but I’m just happy and really lucky I get to know you... this is, I mean… Stan says this, you know.”

Kenny inhales sharply at the words and the continued, gentle movement of Stan’s hands against his. Stan continues, “Stan is really worried about you and wishes that you didn’t feel like you need to hurt yourself… and I, Toolshed, also truly hope that you stop hurting yourself. Stan and I are here for you. And I’m gonna stay with you sometimes just to make sure you’re okay.”

Feeling the urge to cry, laugh, and curl into a ball all at the same time, Kenny sniffles and grins, whispering, “No offense, but… I wish Stan were here. He’s my favorite person. And if he were here… I’d probably suck his dick.”

Stan’s eyes widen, and shrugs, “Give me one second, let me go get him,”

The blond chuckles and leans in closer, wrapping his arms around the taller boys shoulders and hugging him tightly. Stan curls his arms around Kenny’s waist and holds him tightly. Kenny’s heart is pounding aggressively in his ribcage. “I love you, Stan.”

“I love you, too.” Stan whispers with a smile.

Toolshed and Kenny remain there for a few moments before migrating to Kenny’s terrible, old twin mattress. They lay awake together for hours, talking about their old superhero identities.

_

“Hey, Staniel.” Kenny greets with a knowing smile on approaching Stan’s locker.

The taller boy is immediately stricken with nerves. He fears breaking into Kenny’s house as his old alter ego the night prior was a misconceived idea and that he was about to get politely shot down, even though they spent quite a bit of time together—things just felt _different_ between them. It was a good different, but scary nonetheless. He flashes a forced grin in the smaller boy’s direction, then returns to the mindless task of retrieving his notebook for English class.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me last night.” Kenny exclaims facetiously.

Stan quirks an eyebrow at him. “Try me.”

“Toolshed came to my house. And, he’s all grown up now, and damn, dude, does he look good.” Kenny says dreamily, making Stan chuckle.

“Lucky. He’s probably even sexier now.”

“ _Super_ sexy. Anyways, are you busy after school?”

“Don’t think so,” Stan answers.

“Wanna come over?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Sweet,” Kenny replies with a grin. “See you then. Oh—and, by the way, don’t be jealous… But I think Toolshed has a thing for me.”

Stan smiles, hoping he isn’t blushing. “Who wouldn’t?”

Kenny laughs, shrugs, and then continues on his way. Stan grins to himself and shakes his head, wondering what their after-school endeavor will have in store for them.

_

On entering the McCormick’s home, the two boys hastily head to Kenny’s bedroom. Neither of the boys fancy a rendezvous with Kenny's parents. While Stan has stayed the night and visited this same residence on countless occasions throughout his life, he always feels extreme discomfort when in the presence of his generally inebriated mother and father. He also remains nervous for the forthcoming conversation—he assumes Kenny reciprocates his feelings, but the element of uncertainty on one end remains and makes him wary.

Kenny secures the bedroom door shut behind them then begins wordlessly bustling to his dresser. Stan stands, curiously watching him pry open the top drawer and shift around the compilation of junk and a few pairs of unmated socks and underpants.

The smaller boy pushes the drawer closed after retrieving a matchbox. Stan is bemused by its significance until he reads the vexed expression on Kenny’s handsome face. Still, he says nothing, and in his own time, Kenny turns to the other boy and speaks with little conviction. “I-I want to do something today, but I want you to be with me.”

“I’m right here.” Stan confirms.

 _This is going to be hard_ , Kenny thinks, but his determination wins out. He exhales deeply and leads Stan to the small bathroom across the hall. Again, the door is pulled closed behind them, but the smallness of the room makes Stan’s heartbeat jump. The close quarters causes him to brush against Kenny, which he both does not mind _at all_ and is leery of.

Kenny is distracted by his self-helping task at hand. He considered this all day and night, but he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to carry out the mission without a supporter of his wellbeing there to see him through this. Slowly, he slides the matchbox ajar and winches at the mere sight of its contents.

Stan’s probing blue eyes cast over Kenny’s shoulder to discern the object. His heart crumbles and falls again. He twists his lips, remaining silent. Kenny tries desperately to maintain a stoic expression, but when he peers up at Stan’s concerned face, he loses his ability to contain his emotions.

“I’m gonna flush ‘em. But I don’t know if I can do it on my own.”

Stan forces a half-hearted grin, stepping closer to Kenny and taking his sizably smaller hand. He laces their fingers as a token of wordless sanction. _I’m here for you_ , he tells Kenny with his eyes, and the other boy reads it like a book.

The task is less daunting with Stan’s soft hand encasing his own. The toilet seat is lifted, revealing the clear water that perpetually lays in at the base of the bowl. He shuts his eyes, frustrated with the portion of his brain that is screaming at him to stop—that’s telling him he _needs_ the sharp shards of metal. These thoughts infest his brain until Stan notices his resistance and gives his palm a squeeze. Their gazes meet, and Stan gives him an encouraging nod.

“Alright… Here it goes.” Kenny sighs as he slowly paces towards the toilet. He uses all the inner strength he can muster and the support of Stan to force himself to extend his hand over the porcelain bowl and flick his wrist. A wave of panic splashes through his chest as he watches the blades that he spent many lonely nights with plummet into the water with a plop. In some ways, he feels relief and power. But in others, he feels the urge to swiftly reach into the water and retrieve them before it is too late. “Will you…” He starts to ask Stan, but is unable to find it within himself to finalize the request.

Stan understands anyways. He takes a single stride towards the toilet and pushes the handle down. The sound of flushing is deafening to Kenny as fresh tears moisten his freckled cheeks. Glossy honey eyes watch the blades swirl in circles before being washed away by a quart of water. He releases a shaky exhale, whispering, “Good-bye.”

Stan frowns at his crying crush. He offers his arms by extending them and Kenny immediately collapses into his embrace. Soft cries emit from his lips and Stan presses multiple soft kisses to his hair, whispering sweet nothings about how this is for the better and he’ll be a lot happier from here on out. When he’s calm and complacent, the shorter boy withdraws from Stan’s hug and uses his sleeve to wipe the moisture from under his nose.

“Thanks.” Kenny comments, making Stan smile brightly. Feelings of adoration for his best friend in front of him provide him with a hint of confidence. He throws his arms around Stan’s neck and grins widely up at him. “I feel really… relieved. Like, some kind of weight is off my shoulders now.”

“I’m glad. You didn’t need that. Toolshed knows his shit.”

“He does. Toolshed is great and all, but,” Kenny begins, barely leaning up to stare directly into Stan’s eyes. “I couldn’t have done this without Stan.”

Stan grins widely at the sentiment. The pair spend a few more moments gazing happily into one another’s eyes. Finally, Stan spouts in a careful whisper, “So… You wouldn’t be totally disappointed if… _Stan_ kissed you before Toolshed does?”

Kenny smirks, “I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.”

Stan does not need to be told twice. He makes the distance between their lips nonexistent and kisses the other boy with all the passion he can muster—which is a considerable amount. Kenny’s eyebrows crease, chills igniting his entirety. He had fantasized about this moment on copious occasions, but the real thing is far superior to anything his imagination has ever created. The kiss remains innocent and careful. Stan drags his lips along Kenny’s rheumatically and lovingly. They are in a world of their own, it seems.

When they pull away, their noses are still pressed together, and their heavy breaths mix. Kenny feels weightless and freed; like the feeling that sliding the blade against his skin gave him, but in a different way. This felt right and pure. It did not come with that guilt or self-loathing disappointment. This was just his lips pressed against Stan’s, and he realizes he can make it through his addiction if this amazing boy is by his side. The impending _numb_ feels even more subdued.

Instead of saying anything, Kenny cups the nape of Stan’s neck and draws him in for another sweet kiss. Stan loves this more than anything in the world; kissing this boy, feeling loved by this boy, and simply _this boy_. He could stay with his lips pressed to Kenny’s for the rest of his natural life and be completely content. He finally feels important and needed, and Kenny finally feels heard and safe.


End file.
